


We are the Beast

by Tiefschwarz



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiefschwarz/pseuds/Tiefschwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Akira encounters the half-ghoul!Amon, and there is this one question she has to ask of him – are his newly acquired instincts now everything he can be summed up with? Or is there more to the Amon she once knew? Some vicious Takizawa x Akira at the beginning, with further on Akiramon even more twisted. M for gore feast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are the Beast

**Author's Note:**

> There's a possibility of Akira's probable OOCness due to the shock factor and all.

* * *

She's well aware one ghoul is worth five of the regular CCG forces. Might be three – or in the rarest of cases even two, if those are highly professional, well trained and unafraid of thinking like their prey, practically becoming the ghouls themselves – if only in the mind – it still leaves visible marks not just on their psychic. You can spot a ghoul exterminator the moment you see one – such experience isn't the one easily erased.

Be it a two versus one ghoul with still chances for a victory – it's still never a one on one fight. At least, not a fight one survives being completely human. How many friends and beloved comrades has Akira lost to those fateful duels? It's unspoken among the CCG and the rows of standard issue gravestones keep multiplying while the remaining living people struggle to keep on fighting instead of counting what they've lost.

Yet all orders aside, she's in a one on one combat now, and the ending of it is becoming clearer with each blow shared with her nemesis. The one who understands the odds are in his favour perhaps all too well – the one she never wished to fight in first place – but fate has a funny way of reorganizing one's wishes into their complete opposites.

And so Akira realizes there's little to no chance left for her against this new Takizawa – and not just because of that insane strength he's apparently accumulated in the changed body of a half-ghoul. It's all partly because all she sees of him now – that screaming maddening creature delivering first-class hits she barely manages to block (no room to even plan an attack in such circumstances!) – she still keep seeing Takizawa in that abomination, and this, Akira understands as clear as a daylight, would be the end of her – she's exterminated ghouls in hundreds (or so they say in voices laced with fear and admiration, praising her when she's not looking) – but she never got a hand in killing her _friends_.

And truth be told, she hoped she'd never have to – yet here she is, nearly cornered and unable to fight back – and at the same time holding back her strength (whatever's left of it in this draining battle) – almost entirely paralyzed, Akira feels it now, – with purest, animalistic – fear.

Fear of cutting out of her life something that she thought has been buried long ago – yet with Takizawa's "miraculous" reappearance – returned into her mind and overwhelmed her heart like a tsunami of unwanted and feared what if's – those trains of thought more dangerous than a thousand of hungry ghouls closing in on her on an especially unlucky night; those questions that are arising in Takizawa's presence more wicked than whichever answers Akira may ever hope to provide.

That other one "what if" – no! Screaming internally is the only weakness she can allow herself in this moment of turmoil as never in her right senses would she allow _that_ Takizawa – ghoul or human – witness her coming undone like that; her being that real self which she's become such an expert in hiding – the self that is afraid, so damn afraid it blocks the instincts of her body – and even more so – the self that is alone, so hellishly alone – all thanks to you, Takizawa, don't you know?

So Akira would not release the screams although he taunts her and he _wants_ her – to yell it all out loud, to feed him with her fears first – before he gets down to feasting on her body there's an opportunity not to be missed to eat out her mind, the ever so impeccable citadel of sense and duty and strength and vigour – now tumbling down around her fragility stripping her of all the famed prowess.

They say strong feelings like friendship are bound to make you stalwart, more capable and enduring – yet they omit this particular situation when your friend is no more – but a monster in the skin of once beloved, – or is he not? Is he still that same Takizawa that she used to know? What if that curse (for the lack of better naming to the ghoul transformation) can be reversed? Arima could know – hell, Arima would know, _must_ find the way to…

…Yet what if there is no way for Takizawa? And he clearly enjoys his current state, doesn't he? Or was he _made_ to enjoy it? Revel in the bloodlust like their kin do – it sure has to be a mindless feat of ecstasy that comes as natural to ghouls as your regular breathing – just how much of the Takizawa she knew is left in this creature? Is there any at all? Or nothing but a name?

But he clearly demonstrates the fond memories he has of her – albeit in a way most wicked and unnerving, this still means his mind was not entirely altered to assist whichever cruel purposes those monsters are harbouring! There's something remaining within him – there has to be – there _must_ be – because what could be other reasons for her stalling instead of attacking him so to end this lethal circus once and for all?

The chance is small and hope is even more fickle, and yet Akira simply can't bring herself to let it go astray in the wild tingling sense of the inevitable bloodshed that devours all rational thought leaving her to depend solely on the instincts ingrained into her core by years of training – this little glimpse of something _more_ to this vile replica of her once friend – its light just won't let go out, won't yield to the darkness ready to encompass the both of them in their final dance.

In the haze of numbing indecision, there she stands so open for his murderous intents, mesmerized by this hope (how weak of her and stupid, so stupid!) and thus unwilling to indulge into this fight any longer – and knowing, knowing this delay would cost her life – and Arima wouldn't have the chance to investigate into this case as the only witness would be gone!

* * *

…And all her dreams are shards of dried blood falling off his fingers reaching out for her, craving, demanding, cutting through flesh as easily as through the wind filled with odours of decay and death impending; there will be no what if's anymore – and in the end she failed them all – her father most of all – a weakling fighter that she is, unable to surpass the very basic of her stubborn heart – she should have been turned into a ghoul instead of him, as she deserved to suffer through this madness, paid with her foolishness aplenty but so not enough – this death would be a mercy kill indeed – he'd rather let her live as one of his kind, a punishment so fitting for the breakable junk she's now reduced to.

Perhaps his orders _were_ to get her body to them – but one does not argue with the primal bloodlust should it take the charge – no matter ghoul or human – they all abandon orders recklessly, almost with joy closing in for a kill so much desired it hurts, it hurts so much.

It truly wounds them no less than it penetrates the delicate skin of their victims, crushes the bones to finely ground flour, lets out the effervescent blood to nourish this never-ending thirst – bringing the murderer to the point of ecstatic frenzy the closer they are to the edge of life, counting every breath to be the last yet reveling in each mistake, drinking them down to dried sinew, tearing that apart with fervency so primeval it's unidentifiable, raw, furious desire to rend and rend and rend.

And it's too easy to succumb to the temptation when your opponent appears so willing – whatever moral turmoil holds them back, this matter not – but that's the skin that matters, the pristine shining of the thin cover upon the darker stronger flows of blessed liquid, the promise of a pleasure so carnal it's switching off whatever remnants of mind are left – the slaughter is his thank you gift to her, the prize for this victory after so many defeats; the human weakness – an insurance to his absolute supremacy.

She will be no more Akira, she will be all but rawest flesh, most delicious in her screaming; the outrage of a loser he's going to swallow down together with the delicacy of her frame coming undone – there is no brake for bloodlust, there is no going back to being human, and all the regrets he might have had – are quivers of his expert fingers, are rattling of his own bones within this ghoul frame – and if this is the final price he has to pay to have his way – he's more than willing to.

His memory of mind might be washed out again but not the memory of his body that would have the imprint of her struggle upon it till forever perishes – and no one would be able to take _that_ away from him.

* * *

The moment of realization when it's just too late usually acts like a catalyst of sorts – there's no more room for fettling (just as no energy left for fighting), and the mind's eye is suddenly clear, all hopes discarded – Akira lets him win, doesn't she?

A momentary stumble, a belief that's likely to be false (but who is there to make sure?) – and all the senses acute as ever, the trickles of blood so warm it's almost soothing and his fingers albeit quavering with barely suppressed anticipation – travelling so leisurely across her wound as if they are in slow motion; and Time itself took a break to have a better look at them.

In catatonic state like this Akira lazily remembers there must be some more movements performed to have her done with, and those probably will be released when due once the ghoul  
takes his time with the prize – just a little bit deeper, an inch up – or down, or to the left, whichever fashion he'd prefer for it to end faster – knowing him (what an irony! She never knew the ghoul, yet somehow Akira feels as if she does… impossible!), he'd want to prolong the delight.

His tongue on her skin feels surprisingly – human! And so are the teeth – painful as they should be, but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that is not… understandable. What a late, useless shock of information, Akira doesn't wish to think rationally for those last moments of her thoroughly wasted life of hopeless battles, yet the mind just stubbornly won't black out; even if the seemingly gentle bite is almost too much to take in such state of wounds both physical and mental.

She'd rather be spared the sensations this new Takizawa awakens in her body and be done with it before another wall protecting her from the utter insanity cracks and buries her beneath its bloody discoveries. As there's not even a chance for gentleness in situations like this – so why does she feel, why does she feel like she is…

…Torn away and smashed and crashed, and all the world goes upside down for few painful eternities, and the earth tastes so marvelous (do ghouls relish in human flesh like that?) – or is it so yummy because of her blood that it's soaked with so richly? It's actually almost sweet and sedative within the battle she's no longer part of.

Why is there even a battle in first place, can someone remind her? She's paused for a fateful moment of doubt and therein it should be over… Over with! So why is it not? And what's all the commotion about?

* * *

Eliminate target, provide support if necessary, get back to base.

As simple as this. No whims, no buts and no backing out. It's also designed as a kind of a test for you two. You'd surely appreciate the irony, believe us. Of course ghouls enjoy the good irony no less than humans do, as why not? A somewhat killer irony at that (what a nasty laughter!) but we need more accurate data on your rehabilitation process.

More data. That's all he is now – beyond the rights and wrongs, stranger to both of the warring states, an experiment no one can tell for sure failed or succeeded with unsurpassed greatness. Mental images incoming like untamed tidal waves – and ebbing away into the hollow numbness, leaving him a shell of… whom?

There's more to it, there's more to _him_ – without any solid facts and proofs, he somehow _knows_ this, and that knowledge is like a festering splinter to his wandering conscience, keeping him as focused as it is even possible in his state that could be most likely described as comatose – were it not for the perfect dynamics of his active and strong physic, fighting and training and… killing? – whereas not a single shred of understanding his actions registers in the recesses of his mind.

There're certain peaks when he can assess his state at least in basic logic circuits, those arrive unannounced as eruptions of information, hot and liquid, scorching his carefully stupefied intellection with its intensity; burning down holes in the structured system of lies and truth (at moments like that he doubts the truth even exists at all) turning everything he gets to percept with this new body into molten conspiracy of too many questions, not a single answer – and a whirlwind of imagery.

Images diffused to splatters of colour and light nearly losing all and every shape there ever was to them in first place – images that also transmit the foreign feelings like warmth which is _not_ that familiar one of the fountains of blood rushing from the freshly cut throat, – but an alien kind of warmth that does not include the delicious (the sickening!) scents of death in its composition.

Images filled with unknown light to the very brim – that his eyes are ready to burst out of their sockets, especially the dark eye which starts bleeding every time the recurring blinding experience takes place – and yet he cannot seem to be able to discern the shapes which appear in the flux of omnipervasive radiance – they call out to him with familiarity he has no words to describe, and that call has this strange longing to it – a longing _not_ for blood; not a hunger but something… Something more.

What it is – he cannot even begin to fathom. Not that he hasn't tried! There must be something preventing him from going any further in that direction – something that hits like an expert wielder of a quinque would, or a dozen of them – all at once. He can hardly keep up with the mental struggle – not only his opponent is too strong for him to take out, but it's unknown as well – how many faces does this force have, how many claws are there to suppress and tear him down?

He's deprived of answers – yet not of food. That is the best way to keep the mind shut and blessedly clear from tortures every conscious thought inflicts on him. And so they feed him well – perhaps too well, understanding both his urges and his uncertainties better than he himself probably does.

At first all the flesh and blood in his mouth, teeth chewing it as if they've been doing so forever – that feels repulsive – for reasons he cannot define, there's just something triggering him to puke it out every time he's forced to it – until the hunger is used like an educational method – the best method at that.

He's supposed to forget his initial reactions – at least that's what they expect of him – but the bodily memory is persistent, despite the changes his physical form has to undergo every now and then. "It's for your very own survival", – they insist, keeping up the experiments. The mind is blank afterwards, without a fault, and there's no pause between killing and eating. Definitely no pause for thinking things straight, the schedule is tight like that.

Eliminating targets is part of training, as regular as they come, incessant, daring, already dead the moment they meet him – devoured a few moments later; with no faces and no memories to linger. And then this mission – another test in strength, isn't it? It has to be, as what else there is to his abilities but his prowess – rough yet cunning, unpredictable, swift and precise?

* * *

It appears, there indeed is something more to his new self – as the dark eye starts bleeding profusely – and merely at a sight of… What? The feeling of mind blacking out during action has grown all too familiar – he's simply going to close in on them and finish what Takizawa so lazily continues, isn't that his intent? The usual routine of a battle-crazed body, scents of blood bleaching out everything else within his brain – he's sure he can predict what happens next.

Yet why is that ghoul eye he has is bleeding so strangely? Out of mind – if only for a moment – he propels himself forward delivering the impeccable blow in one practiced motion – however one blow is never enough to finish it up – not with their capabilities of instant healing, not with their minds acting out on their own like this, – oh, there has to be a set of regulations to what to do in a fight in order to survive it, and certainly no place for the reckless battling with your own assigned partner.

Even if Takizawa is startled, he's too far gone into the blissful feasting to be truly paying attention to anything else – unless it distracts him from his immediate source of delight. Enraged, he speeds up and strikes with precision unexpected in his nearly drunken state – but that's what one would do to protect their food, would they not?

In the long run, it all comes down to endurance – and that girl has done her fair share of wearing Takizawa enough for him to eventually lose it – his blood splashes on Amon in rich gouts, its odour strikingly different from the scent of a girl, sharper, wilder – enough to shut him out entirely.

* * *

And then there's a scream. Her scream, he realizes, struggling to look her way, his body as if trapped in an unseen web strangling him from any movement, head heavy like a solid rock and as impenetrable to any reasonable thought – why would she scream at him, she should have passed out already from all the blood loss, should she not?

Moreover, why is he even evaluating her state in first place? He should have killed her, that's it! Yet… Now wait a second. Two of them. A minute. A pause in the canvas of his existence – what has just happened?

You don't have to often experience a divine revelation to know one. And this situation was certainly not one of them either. This – was a nightmare! In a metaphorical sense of word, of course, as he never had any dreams. Not anymore, as he suspected there'd been a time, once, before whichever accident that took place and altered his sense of reality to the point where he knew himself no longer.

And there it was, coming at him full throttle, with a force more formidable than his own kagune, – the blinding light, ready for a reversed kind of slaughter, rending his mind to shreds, the pressure unbearable and driving him to his knees, right into Takizawa's corpse, washing him over with blood, serving only to enhance the sensation of being hit – and dissolved to pieces, to bits, to shining particles of…

What is it? Wisps of flesh? Floating slowly in the radiant glow that consumed his entire existence, the pain flowing in and ebbing away as those small items are coursing past him – through him? – Their soft texture like caress, their scent foreign yet welcome, – and the outlines within the sheen finally taking a definite form.

Her form. There she is – screaming at him, isn't she? – crouched on the ground, small, even tiny, the silhouette pulsating violently through the bleeding of now both of his eyes, as if daring him to near and get the answers he so craves for.

He almost forgot he did – yet the hit was powerful enough to revive back those intentions, sharpen them like blades against his skin – the underside of it, the tender flesh of his own; the muscles stripped of any outer protection, now quivering under the quelling force of… Her presence?

She utters a name – his name, but how would she know it? And yet her voice is like the key, unlocking everything there is to hide; her voice is definitely teamed up with that light, as it guides and inflicts pain, promises truth and death all at once, menacing, darling, frenzied and desired.

He should get a grip, even if on Takizawa's dissected body, and there's nothing more sobering than a good chunk of that odorous flesh – yet he can't bring himself to business now, not under that scrutinizing gaze of hers – and then what is it, horror? Sadness? How come?

The urges are too powerful to be resisted, and he's too worn out and blinded to properly consider his surroundings, to process the possible meaning behind her looks, to act on the remaining shreds of rational activity within his brain – so he can only bark at her like an untamed animal that he certainly is, bark at her not to look; turn away, get lost, escape, run, – for if she doesn't, he'd devour her like he's currently burying himself in those sticky intestines in search for the juiciest part; devour her without second thought or glance.

* * *

And oh no she's not letting him do that, not now that's she somehow still alive, and he appears to be alive too; not now when he's just disposed of Takizawa, and she can feel his blood on her mixing with that of her own – and there's no her as in a single entity, there's no him, not anymore – yet this another monster paying her a visit (would it be a final one?) – another monster she did not expect, and since her life has been already gambled on – there's nothing more to really be so anxious about.

Yelling at him to stop is obviously to no avail – they've turned him into a beast, that is probably designed to go this crazed – somehow she's sure this is will not be natural to him of all people, even after all the transformations – this can _not_ be natural to him!

Not like that, not with Takizawa – nor anybody else for that matter – and so she has to crawl closer, grip him, shake him – fear and revulsion aside, he _must_ still be himself, deep inside, they couldn't have erased _him_ – they would not dare to, would they?

Hence she must _not_ be afraid of the beast, be her belief twice as foolish as all the mistakes she's ever done before – she's not letting him succumb any further into the madness they've bestowed upon him instead of death.

Her touch is like a jolt – of both light and anger and agony and resolve (now where would that come from?) – shaking him out of the sudden hunger, electrocuting his mind back to reality (though what is reality anymore?) – back to the pain that's certainly not coming from physical wounds, the pain that's not even _his_ – but hers (how does he even feel it then?) – coursing through him like molten fire, drowning him in a tsunami of… Recognition?

And then there's no escape from the light, its onslaught's never been so bright before, and her fingernails sure feel like claws in his flesh, and he suddenly knows that's Akira, Akira in front of him, Akira – the one he swore to protect! Protection… Duty… Promise… Broken.

Snow was falling too slowly, and to this moment he can hear the distant cries through the thick veil of welcome unconsciousness, but there's more to the oath, this light is beyond it, although encompassing it as well.

Who was he? Who is he now? Where's the link – _she_ is the link herself, the bond and the key, the road and the final destination – just how can he be so sure of it? He, who just a moment ago has been so busy tearing apart the limbs of his partner; he, who still tastes the lingering bliss of blood in his throat; whose senses are uncontrollably tingling in anticipation of _her_ injuries to be thoroughly examined.

She wonders aloud with him as to the nature of whom he's become – and he listens, as he can not – will not ever tune her out, and there's a way somewhere in this scorching radiance, there is a scent of something else merged into the blood; a promise – and a whole life that is different, so much different from what's become of him!

A slap on his face feels surprisingly invigourating, as if Akira understands what so much blood does to the capability of his perception, – now that would be almost too caring a gesture coming from her, from her whose gestures were always so…

And then there's even more light – right when he's thought it simply cannot be contained within him any longer and his head might probably explode from all of it – still there's more, and the remembrance, and her lips in his palm, and he was never like this for he's been human, human, human…

A human with a duty, an oath he could not fulfill (the headache is beyond his limits!) – a hope so violently sacrificed to fear, his very own fear – and look what has become of him thanks to this fear: saliva mixed with Takizawa's blood trickling softly down his chin and inside the collar, travelling across his neck, evoking goose bumps in response to the pinkish liquid colouring his skin, his clothes – and her hand, trying to wipe it away from him, the desperation in a simple gesture overwhelming for the both of them – since when has he gotten so in tune with her?

* * *

Yet there they are, a string of saliva on her palm now pressing to her own mouth (but that's disgusting! _Why_ would she even do that?), like a twisted version of that proverbial red string of fate; fate she must not attempt to link with his, for he is tainted irrevocably, for he's a sinner she should exterminate in cold heart instead of…

…Instead of kissing. And if the sense of déjà vu could kill – it's probably the best time there ever will be. He deserved it to be performed in the cruelest of ways. So when her lips touch the inside of his palm once again – Amon has readied himself for the blow.

The light was blinding, true, and welcome was its luminosity, so much more welcome than the sunshine; the light has brought him to the answer, one among the many and one to top them all – so it's only logical the light should kill him. But he would not let her kiss the beast, not that abomination he's become, not with particles of Takizawa's flesh still in his mouth waiting to be chewed and swallowed:

"Not like this!"

There's some sort of a weird afterglow on his palm where she touched him – a caress he thought he's forgotten the meaning of – as all those years ago there was just silence between them – yet now, now of all times! – she kisses his lifelines as if trying to read them aloud (why does he want to hear the hope in those words unsaid? Why is there so much desperation, even corporeal _need_ to that?) – and then the soft pressure lingering long after his brash words have pushed her aside.

It has her angered, just as he predicted, however there would be no more bottling up her feelings like she used to do – as what outcome has that brought her? A MIA, the truth between them that is all but forever left unsaid, what would her father think of him now should he have been alive? Good thing he's dead now, spared from seeing this atrocity instead of the Amon he worked with – and her bitter laugh cuts like the finest quinque that was ever created, to lash not only through the body – but through the mind as well.

"And like how?"

This is not a question, Amon cannot let her intonations fool him, not now when his fate is in her hands – hands he could easily break, like the entirety of her, eliminate the target and be done with it, return to being mindless beast again; unable to accept the truth of his existence – and now unable to forget that he has truly had the chance to change it. All of it. Change to what?

That he would not venture to answering, yet here's his path and guiding light in front of him, so small and delicate and bleeding – and yet so fierce in her despair – the one that _he_ inflicted like the too careful fool he's always been (as apparently there're things one cannot easily delete neither from conscience nor from the overall existence) – and then the show in front of him unravels too fast for him to react.

* * *

"Is it because I'm still human?"

"Is it because you find your worthless self too disgusting (that you are!) – or is it because we're never equal, nor in life nor in death, is it the humans are only fit for eating?

"Oh, is it too improper? Open your eyes, swallow down that fleshmeat, talk about improper! So you consider yourself a monster? Aren't we all? Haven't we always been them, ever since?"

They are, of course they are, Amon is perfectly aware of that – yet there's hope for her, and he will not dare…

"It's all because of them who made you this way that we are now no better than you are, can't you see? I have more blood on my hands than you can ever hope to achieve – and do you realize it's all because of you?

"Oh yes you can blame it on yourself all you want – but are you even capable of such a feeling now, ghoul? Half-ghoul, is there anything human to you? Is it all you are now? Well then look closer".

He should not watch and must stop her before it's too late but the dainty fingers are already in Takizawa's stomach, and there's a telltale sound of flesh being ripped apart, and that sight strikes hard on those newly acquired instincts of his – so that he can not unsee how Akira slowly, but deliberately takes that cursed bite, while staring him dead in the eye.

Now they both have Takizawa's blood on their hands as well as their faces, Takizawa's flesh to chew; and there's a look of the most defeated triumph ever possible on Akira's face – and then there're tears glistening upon the bloodstains on her cheeks, and when she leans in to kiss him once again – he hates himself for being unable to move away, completely paralyzed and indeed worthless, tasting Takizawa's blood again – now from her, mixed with her own, burning him down to the very core, where a human's crouched form is so overwhelmed by the beast.

Tears should have a different taste but all there's left to them is blood, too much blood, and he's responsible for her unorthodox methods of salvation; for her licking the blood from his face, like animals would do, him mirroring her actions just the same – and careful, still too careful to keep her close without crushing, mindful of her own wounds that pose a significant threat to his senses…

* * *

If she herself wasn't his biggest threat – and the cure at the same time. She who willingly falls down to his level; she who kisses him with the hunger no ghoul has ever experienced, the hunger nourished by his ever present fears, his duty, his supposed death – and in the moment they are so much the same, feverish, craving, – abhorrent to the humankind; her hoarsely whispering:

"We are the beast now, aren't we?"

And then she, still a human, bites him, the half-ghoul, drawing his blood to the mixture. Not that he cares – for as long as there's blood he can hardly stop this dance macabre – but for her sake, herself, the beacon of his wretched existence; he lets go of her mouth, the trickles of salivated blood hanging between them like some twisted bonds.

"So is that all? All there is to you?" – the strained playfulness does no good to mask the anguish; no more than his desperate answers do – that they are not the beast, he is, for sure, but never them, not now, not ever – she probably takes this as a decided impossibility of _them_ altogether, but he's not sure, for how can he really be? – his mind has been wondering in the lurid madness for so long this clear thinking feel so new to him, and he may not know the full answer yet – however he refuses to let her be the beast.

Of that he's sure – be it the last and only solid certitude in his life, he will protect her, and so he tells her; this another chance that brought him back to consciousness will not be wasted; not this time, for he's been on the run from promises far too long, foolishly believing that no words uttered would equal to no feelings shared – a falsehood too enticing to resist when all you do is break your promises night and day; yet a falsehood nonetheless.

"We are not the beast. Even if I am – you will make sure that _we_ – aren't. Now take all the strength you'd need".

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Surprizingly, the characters themselves wrote an ending like this, and I was left no other choice but to jot it down, as I myself hardly plan it even remotely happy. Good thing they do.


End file.
